


Turnips

by amberwing



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Turnips, UST, dragon mud-wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberwing/pseuds/amberwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another day fighting dragons and flirting with abominations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnips

It takes Anders a while to ask her about her burns.  Hawke _knows_ it’s coming; everyone pops the question eventually, and she’s come to terms with it.  She’s _okay_ with lying about it.  Oh, yes, she’ll say.  Those.  Mother was making my favorite roast turnips in the coals, and, well, you know.  Kids and turnips.  It was pretty much a guarantee that I’d take a shot at them.  So the turnips struck back and I was left with _this_.  I am turnip-marked to the grave.

Sometimes she’ll get a laugh out of them for it, especially if they’re Ferelden.  Fereldens are proud of their turnips, no matter how snidely the Orlesians will zipper the word through their noses: _turr-neeps_.

So, really, when she’s sitting on a stone outside the Bone Pit trying not to curse while he’s peeling layers of mostly burned fabric off of her arm – Maker damn the one who decided dragons needed acid for spit in addition to all the other horrible things about them – she’s more surprised that he took so long.

“At least you don’t have to worry about scarring,” he says mildly, peeling and then dropping another piece of acid-soaked cloth to the ground with a pair of tweezers.  Hawke’s trying not to bite through her own lip, even though he’s being careful; Anders, she’s realized, has the steadiest hand of any healer she’s ever met, and she’s ever grateful.  But, really, there’s no nice way to go about extracting mostly dissolved pieces of wool and leather from an open wound.

“Small pleasures,” she hisses, stifling a yelp as he gets a particularly long piece. “Maker, is this what tapeworms are like?”

His snort is gratifying.  Also, the fact that his hand doesn’t waver.  She likes the way concentration makes him bite his lower lip, and how she can watch him without him noticing.

“Pray you don’t ever get to know,” he replies.  She tries to focus her eyes beyond him as he glances up at her, towards where Aveline is noisily trying to yank a dragon claw from her shield.  Varric is assisting by way of laughing – a bit hysterically, not that Hawke will ever tell.  Aveline, her hair escaping its cord and scorches blackening her guardsman’s armor, looks too exhausted to protest.  Or is that a smile tugging at the side of her mouth?  No, never.

“What happened?  If I can ask.  It must have been... painful,” he says, and she jerks her eyes back to him.  He’s looking back at her shoulder again, which, thankfully, has been cleaned at last.  Hawke resists the urge to shrug.  Though, the shrug is part of the turnip routine.  She’s not sure it’ll have the same impact when she’s trying not to make herself hurt any more than she already does.

“Painful,” she agrees. “Agonizing is another good word.”

“Excruciating?” he offers, one eyebrow arched as he digs into his pack.  A bundle of herbs and a little jar of something yellowish appear in his hands.

“Ooh, yes,” Hawke says. “That’s a good one.  Torturous also works.”

“Burns are,” Anders sighs. “Hold still.”

Hawke huffs back, but does so, hissing as he starts to rub yellowy ointment onto the first of the acid splashes.  Andraste’s hairy upper _lip_ , that hurts.  A high-pitched whimper escapes her teeth that she can’t stifle, fingers of her free hand digging into the turf they’re seated upon.

Anders, excellent healer that he is, doesn’t bother trying to coo her through the process; he just ignores her, keeping a firm grip on her arm as he finishes with the ointment and begins plastering on a poultice.  He also doesn’t ask her again about the burns, though she can see him following their gristly path down her arm.  He knows an evasive maneuver when he hears it, apparently, and either he doesn’t care enough to pry, or doesn’t want to hurt her feelings.

Neither option is particularly satisfactory.  She watches him from the corner of her eye, refusing to actually be caught _staring_ , and wonders what’s going through his mind.  What does he think got her roasted like a feast-day fowl?  Another dragon?  Templars?  Turnips?

He’s got elfroot stuck all over his palms as he falls back on his heels.  The smell is a little overwhelming now that she’s got it on her arm.  He eyes his handiwork critically for a moment and then nods, satisfied. “Good.  Hold your arm out, like this,” he instructs her, and Hawke obeys.  He’s wrapping clean bandages around her with practiced efficiency, when Hawke feels the itch on her tongue.  Bad sign.  She’s going to say something she regrets if she doesn’t stop herself right—

“Tell you what.  I’ll explain mine if you explain this,” she says, reaching over with her free hand and pointing to his earlobe.  Scars, of course.  It’s always about the scars with her. 

He blinks at her, reaching for his ear and then furrowing his eyebrows.  His fingers tug at his earlobe as if just remembering its existence.

“Justice doesn’t approve of frivolities,” he explains, his mouth quirking to the side in the way of someone dealing with an overbearing mother. “I sold the ring when I moved to Kirkwall.”

“Shame,” Hawke says, closing her eyes.  Justice, right.  Sometimes she forgets when she shouldn’t.  She shouldn’t be even peripherally involved with this man, this abomination – but Maker, look at him.  She has to stop herself from actually looking again, to the beak of a nose and the lines on his forehead, the freckles on his hands.  His eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles, which is much too infrequent. “But where does a Circle mage get earrings in the first place?” She’s biting her lip again as he starts to wrap bandages, wrist to shoulder, and she won’t lie to herself: it’s not entirely because it hurts anymore. 

“Oh, come on now,” he drawls, letting the soft linen loose around the crook of her elbow, then drawing it tight again against her bicep. “Don’t tell me you believe that crock that every mage in the tower is a model citizen?”

His fingers are soft against her shoulder, against her burns.  Sometimes she can feel them, as clear and awful as the day she got them; most others, they’re simply numb, as if the skin has been replaced by another film of clothes.  Now, though, she’s straining to feel.  He ties off the bandage, but his hand lingers – or, at least, Hawke tells herself that he lingers, because she’d like that to be the case.

She’s stupid enough to like the idea of an abomination – albeit a rather good-looking abomination -- maybe-sort of-could finding her attractive.  Or enjoyable to be around.  Or—

He’s a healer and he’s healing her blasted arm, easy as that, and she should slap herself silly.  Stop flirting and get back to the task at hand.

“Shh,” Hawke tells him. “You’ll start giving me ideas.”

Damn it all, there she goes.  Being her own moral guide is nigh impossible when she hasn’t gotten laid since— No, stop that thought.  And for the love of the Maker do not pay attention to the way his mouth curls like he’s trying not to smile, nor think about the things she could do with said mouth given half a chance.

“Too late,” he replies, and Hawke detects a definite twinkle in his eye that makes her more than a little uncomfortable. “Your turn.”

“Turnips,” is what pops out of her mouth, and for a moment that’s all she can say.  He blinks at her, bewilderment creasing his brow.  Point to her, thank the Maker; time to take charge of this situation before it gets completely out of hand.

“Turnips?” Anders repeats, and Hawke nods. “Fire-breathing turnips?  Maker, I’m glad I got out of Ferelden when I got the chance, if that’s what they’re up to.”

He’s released his grip on her arm, which she takes back a little too quickly, shoving it back into her jerkin and trying to ignore the agony of leather against those ever so tender raw bits. “I _know_ ,” Hawke replies, forcing a grin over the agonized grimace she _wants_ to make. “I kept telling them, we need a squadron of Wardens on garden duty, but nobody listened!  Then, whoops, there goes the Rivaini laundry next door and my arm.  It was such a nice arm, too.”

“Still is,” Anders says, and then his face scrunches up for a brief moment, as if someone punched him in the gut.  Then he’s smoothing it all out again, like a laundress with a particularly stubborn piece of Orlesian lace.  The remains of the wrinkles are there, holding onto his brow and the edges of his eyes and making him look pinched, tired. “Right.  You’ll live to tease the Arishok another day.  Alright over there, Varric?”

Hawke _should_ pretend that it doesn’t make her stomach clench up in misguided attraction and just play along.  She knows she should.  But she’s always been quite terrible at all those proper lines of behavior Mother always touts as “lady-like”.  Or, well.  Amell-like.  “Noble” is the word that comes to mind, and Maker, she hates it. 

“Just the Arishok?” she asks, and Anders glances back at her, those concerned wrinkles growing again.  The pause stretches for long enough that Hawke silently begins to curse at herself.  Shouldn’t you have learned by now that you’re no good at this feelings thing by now?

“Among others,” he replies at last, softly enough that his voice burrs in his throat in such a way that sends a hot wave through Hawke’s body that she hopes – futilely, no doubt – hasn’t lit her face up like a red beacon.

Now, she tells herself, is not the time to be thinking about this.  Honestly, she’s covered in blood, dragon guts, and spider spit from earlier, and Varric is ambling over.  She busies herself with fumbling the ties of her jerkin back into place as the dwarf claps a hand on Anders’s feathered shoulder.

“I’ve been better,” Varric says. “But alive is preferable to the alternative.”

“I saw you bump your head earlier,” Anders says, standing. “Any nausea?  Dizziness?”

Varric gives him a long-suffering look, and knocks his knuckles against his brow.  They leave streaks of muck against his skin. “Dwarven skulls don’t break easily,” he says. “Looks like Hawke got the worst of it.” He gave Hawke a wide, if weary, smile. “May as well have wrestled the dragon down by herself.”

Hawke groans, tugging the final knot into place.  Her arm is less a limb than one giant throbbing ache, and letting it fall to her side again is only slightly better than trying to use it. “Varric,” she grates, using her uninjured arm to push herself to her feet. “If I hear anything about Hawke mud-wrestling dragons, I _will_ come and make you eat the manuscript.”

Varric’s eyes light up. “Mud-wrestling!” he says, a sly curl touching his lips. “Now _there’s_ a story I need to—“

“Maker, no,” Aveline interjects, slogging over.  She’s managed to get the claw out of her shield, but it’s ruined in spite of it.  The talon went clear through the steel plate and its hardwood backing, leaving a gaping hole. “That’s the last thing anyone needs.”

Varric scoffs.  Anders steps over to inspect Aveline, leaving Hawke wavering in place, feeling—

Turnip-y, she concludes.  That is, kind of pale and muddy, and with a desperate need to hide somewhere and roast herself.  It always comes back to the turnips, she realizes, and for once that isn’t what she wanted.

 


End file.
